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Poem

If you follow my poem's flight, 
Pray, hold it under no searchlight, 
Worse, under prying microscope, 
Give discreet ears and a long rope. 
Let not your mind's nigh curious mouse 
Set loose to probe unto its house, 
Nor walk into its private rooms, 
Dig out my hopes’ tenuous tombs, 
Nor look for undue nuances 
On meanings meant between two lines— 
Poems mature long like good wines, 
And good ones take some time to please. 

And O look for no secret switch 
To illumine its dark precincts, 
If need be, curb all your instincts
To switch on the lights-- a false itch.
Take time, but dig not unto line, 
Nor find fault with given design, 
Dwell not on words. What's left unsaid 
More crucial is than what gets said. 
Nor, dear reader, try to hammer 
Nor humiliate my humble piece— 
A mother loves her child as is. 

She’s privileged to nurture her, 
Be mature nigh not to torture, 
Nor analyze it part by part, 
A piece is it of personal art, 
Product of heart more than of head, 
A bird free to sing her fond song--
A song deemed right, nor ever wrong, 
Ergo, never give it a grade. 
Be wary whenever you read, 
It helps these dos and don'ts to heed, 
When you choose my poem to read— 
Breed of mine, to thee nigh like weed. 

So, soften your critical dart, 
Poems come with delicate heart. 
_____________________________ 
Musings | 06.07.11 | poems 

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